Inside
by moonlighten
Summary: October, 2010: Wales' pet makes Scotland and England uncomfortable. One-shot, complete. Part 54 of the Feel the Fear series.


**10th October, 2010; Cardiff, Wales**

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Glowing red eyes follow England's every movement as he takes a tentative sip of his tea. Beside him on the sofa, Scotland shifts his weight restlessly, blunt fingernails tapping an erratic rhythm against the side of his own mug.

"Even though it's fucking creepy, I daren't stop looking at it in case it tries to rip my throat out the moment it thinks I'm distracted." Scotland's voice is slightly muffled, as though he's attempting to speak without his lips moving.

The gwyllgi's huge jaws part, meaty jowls lifting up into something which bears an uncanny resemblance to a smile; seemingly agreeing with Scotland's words. Its teeth are as sharp as knives, and its breath smells like something already putrid died in its mouth quite some time ago.

"Please don't give it any ideas, Scotland," England says, tucking his chin in towards his chest in an attempt to avoid inhaling any more of the noxious fumes than is entirely necessary.

"He brought it over to mine last time he stayed, and it pissed all over my shoes. I had to chuck them all out in the end because they started dissolving. And the way it kept staring at France, I got the distinct impression it wanted to –"

"He wouldn't have hurt him," Wales says as he breezes into the lounge carrying a small plate piled high with biscuits and his own cup of tea. "He's a big softie really."

Wales sets the biscuits down on the coffee table next to England, and England eyes them despondently. There are some dark chocolate HobNobs nestled amongst the Digestives and Rich Teas, but his appetite seems to have fled him entirely. He takes two, anyway, just in case it comes back.

"Softie?" Scotland repeats, snorting derisively. "It's a harbinger of _death_, Wales, not a fucking Labrador."

Wales reaches down – not very far, as its head is almost level with his shoulders – to rumple the gwyllgi's ears, and the creature's eyes roll up in apparent enjoyment. Its thick, shaggy tail starts to wag from side to side across the carpet, which _is_ slightly disarming behaviour coming from something which looks like the outcome of an ill-advised amorous liaison between a bull mastiff and a cow, England has to admit.

"See, he's perfectly tame. And it's not like you don't have black dogs of your own: the Cu Sith, Black Shuck, Gally–"

"Yes, but we don't keep them in our _houses_," England points out. "Quite apart from how dangerous it is, don't you think it's a little cruel? It should be out roaming the countryside, scaring walkers shitless, not cooped up in a three bedroom semi."

"No more cruel than forcing a bunch of Brownies to do your housework, I suspect," Wales says, scowling. "Or keeping a unicorn in your back garden."

"I don't _force _them," Scotland says before England has a chance to protest on his own behalf, "and they get paid. You're right about the unicorn, though."

If England throttled his brother as often as the urge assailed him, he'd never get anything else done. He wraps his hands around his mug as tightly as he dares in an attempt to ride out this particular iteration of that same old impulse, and asks, "And you'd take much better care of it, I suppose?"

"Damn right I would," Scotland says emphatically, despite the fact that he never showed a great deal of interest in the unicorn before it started to show a preference for England's company. "It is mine, when all's said and done."

This is one of their oldest arguments, and its repetition over the centuries has robbed it of any point it may once have had. Nevertheless, it still rankles, as so much about Scotland rankles. "It chooses to stay with me of its own free will. No doubt it would go back to you if it wanted."

Scotland's answer to that is a lengthy diatribe about the perfidious English, which quickly loses any unicorn-based focus it might have had, detouring onto the equally well-trodden path of how much of a twat he thinks England is in general. This rankles, too, as it is no doubt calculated to, and England's patience can only stretch so far.

Just before England starts in upon his own dissection of Scotland's innumerable shortcomings, and his attention becomes completely diverted, he's almost certain that Wales smiles in what appears to be an extremely self-satisfied fashion.


End file.
